The Mystery

THE MYSTERY

If sunset clouds could grow on treesIt would but match the may in flower;And skies be underneath the seasNo topsyturvier than a shower.

If mountains rose on wings to wanderThey were no wilder than a cloud;Yet all my praise is mean as slander,Mean as these mean words spoken aloud.

And never more than now I knowThat man's first heaven is far behind;Unless the blazing seraph's blowHas left him in the garden blind.

Witness, O Sun that blinds our eyes,Unthinkable and unthankable King,That though all other wonder diesI wonder at not wondering.